In France, the first snow of late 1990 came later than usual. But according to his grandfather, it was still more punctual than the Hogwarts Express.
After spending a white Christmas surrounded by Christmas pudding and hot mulled wine, Yulian's parents, Altair and Clara, finally packed their things and took him with them on the journey back to England.
Black Vine Winery's wines had secured a place at Bordeaux's finest tables, and even Muggle food critics had described them as "velvety on the tongue, with an aftertaste like the white moonlight."
His grandparents and his father, Altair, had all seized the moment and decided to bring this "magical flavor" to England. After all, what country could need a little elegant acidity more than one that put three lumps of sugar in its tea?
Yulian wasn't surprised by the decision. Only he understood his grandfather's real intention. Business was one reason, but more importantly, Hogwarts was in England.
His grandfather Alphard had hinted at it several times. "Beauxbatons? Hah. Those girls in blue dresses need music to cast a Levitation Charm. Far too showy."
Yulian couldn't agree more.
Besides, what transmigrator would go to Beauxbatons? What would he call his memoirs in the future? Those Years I Was the Handsome Boy at Beauxbatons? (That didn't sound so bad, actually. Maybe for his next book?) It probably wouldn't even be accepted by a secondhand bookshop in Diagon Alley.
After saying goodbye to his grandfather Alphard and his grandmother Elodie—the latter secretly slipped him a jar of "seasickness-prevention mints"—Yulian boarded the ocean liner bound for Southampton with his parents.
Wisps of white smoke billowed from the ship's black funnels, gradually blurring Bordeaux's rolling vineyards and red-tiled rooftops into a watercolor painting. Then they became no more than hazy silhouettes before finally dissolving into the gray-blue horizon.
Yulian leaned against the cold railing of the deck. The sea breeze carried a damp, salty scent against his face, and his slightly curled hair blew against his temples. But in his mind, scenes from Black Vine Winery kept flashing by:
The grapevines, copper-red in autumn; the bench beneath the oak tree in the back garden, where his grandfather had taught him to recognize the constellations; the way Leah's skirt had billowed as she stamped off; and the neighbor girl who always said dandelions could sing.
Ten years of memories—everyday moments he had once thought were just an "ordinary childhood"—now seemed gilded by the revelation of the Magical World. Or, more accurately, by glowing magical runes.
"Already missing home?" His mother, Clara, came over and draped a thick shawl across his shoulders. The wool carried the faint scent of gardenias from her, driving away the chill of the sea breeze.
His father, Altair, was talking with the sailors farther along the bow. His dark green suit fluttered slightly in the wind, and his every movement still carried the Black Family's characteristic upright bearing and pride.
But his eyes were not as deep as his grandfather's, like an ancient well. Instead, they held the competence and warmth of a refined businessman.
He was a "Black raised in the Muggle world." He had never held a wand or touched the secrets of magic, yet he was a trendsetter in the red wine market, able to sell a bottle of wine for the price of a Galleon.
Yulian nodded, absently rubbing the button on his coat cuff with his fingertips. "Yeah, I'm a little sad to leave." His grandfather had designed the cuff himself. A gentle tug would make the Willow Wand hidden in the sleeve behind his forearm spring out automatically.
Yulian thought the design was brilliant. He could imitate it when he had his school robes made.
He paused, then asked as casually as he could, "By the way, Dad said there aren't any Black relatives left in England. Mom, do we know anyone else there?"
Actually, his grandfather had already told him about the Black Family.
He knew that Narcissa, Draco Malfoy's mother, was a Black, and so was Bellatrix of Azkaban—but his grandfather had explicitly forbidden him to go near either of those "lunatics." As for Sirius, his grandfather had never mentioned him, for some reason.
Then there was Andromeda, who had been disowned. Supposedly, she had married a Muggle and disappeared. (Grandfather didn't know that Andromeda's daughter, Tonks, was also a witch.)
Alphard himself had had his name burned off the family tree, so naturally, he didn't want his grandson dragged into the old grudges of the Wizarding World. "Just live your own life," he often said.
Clara's expression softened, touched with a trace of nostalgia. She gently patted Yulian's head, the warmth of her palm passing through his hair.
"Yes. My distant cousin, Petunia Evans. She married a Mr. Dursley and lives in Little Whinging, County Surrey."
She paused slightly, a faint sadness passing through her eyes. "I know she had a younger sister. We even played together when we were little... But she was gone long ago. Petunia never wants to talk about what happened. Oh, and Aunt Petunia should have a boy about your age. You can make friends with him when we get there."
Evans? The Dursley family? Little Whinging?
The words were like keys, clicking open a treasure chest sealed deep in his memory. No wonder his mother's surname had sounded familiar.
Harry Potter! The Boy Who Lived! The Chosen One! Voldemort's vanquisher!
His grandfather had thought of everything, but he had never realized that his daughter-in-law was related to Harry Potter's mother. And his own grandson—Shiloh Yulian Black—was Harry's distant cousin.
(Incidentally, Draco Malfoy was his cousin too. The Wizarding World really was one giant family group chat. The fanfics hadn't lied.)
He suppressed his disbelief as it surged within him, curled his fingertips slightly, and lowered his head, keeping his expression composed as he nodded obediently. "All right, Mom."
The sea breeze continued to howl, but Yulian felt the blood rushing through his veins faster and faster. The countless nights he had spent immersed in the magical world in his previous life were now overlapping with the reality before his eyes.
Deep within a vast old castle in the Scottish Highlands.
Dumbledore's long silver-white beard nearly brushed the open book's pages as his slender fingers slowly traced the name of a new student on the Book of Admittance.
Suddenly, his fingers stopped. "Shiloh Yulian Black" was clearly inscribed on the parchment, the ink still fresh, at the very bottom of the list.
His blue eyes widened slightly behind his half-moon spectacles.
The Black Family? That ancient, pure-blooded family tree, dwindling day by day, had lost its final branches. Sirius was in Azkaban, and Regulus had already lost his life... The elegy for "the last Black" had long since been sung.
Then who was this child...?
His gaze shifted to the Quill of Acceptance beside him. It had just finished recording the name and now stood beside the inkwell, looking quite pleased with itself. Faint traces of magic still lingered on its nib—the distinctive glimmer it gave off after resonating with ancient protective magic.
The Quill of Acceptance never made mistakes. Could this child truly have Black blood in his veins, yet been completely forgotten or hidden from the Wizarding World?
Or was he simply a Muggle child who happened to be named Black? It wasn't an uncommon surname among Muggles. But Shiloh... That name...?
Perhaps he should ask Severus to look into it. Oh, no. Severus might brew a cauldron of poison the moment he heard the word "Black."
So Dumbledore shook his head with a wry smile. Better to have Minerva make the trip.
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